Americano

Mathieu Demy’s presence is a heavy-burden to carry for any film, never mind one written, directed, and starring him. As the son of canonized icons of cinema Jacques Demy and Agnes Varda, Demy’s Americano feels like it needs to be something better than it is based purely on their long shadows, and it is merely adequate.

The bare bones of a strong story is there, but Demy isn’t much of an actor. His dispassionate performance starts life as a unique reading, we are about to see this man reawaken to himself and his life. This never materializes in Demy’s work, even when the script is clearly heading that way. He always looks slightly bored and disinterested in the material, strange to consider since it came from his mind.

Americano may mangle the central mystery’s payoff, which is very one-dimensional, yet it handles the confusion over whether something is remembered or colored by outside voices. Demy’s fractured memories of his youth in Los Angeles are seen through footage taken by his real-life mother Varda, and contrasted with his character’s frequent lapses in memory, or maybe they’ve been edited by his bitter father. This smoky recollection is the highlight of the film, and proves that Demy has a gift with screenwriting, but maybe he should reconsider acting and directing.